No More Mistakes
by Foxy-Badger
Summary: Moran returns from the woods with a gunshot to his waist. The professor is taking care of the colonel's injuries and makes sure he will not fail again.


'You're losing your touch, Moran,' the Professor spoke with a hint of disappointment in his voice, lifting a glass of bourbon to his lips as he watched his chief of staff. The ex-Colonel lay stretched over the desk in front of Moriarty, on his left side, as a surgeon jabbed a syringe full of morphine into the man's abdomen.

He was sitting in an armchair in Meinhard's old office, unscathed to everyone's surprise; a watchtower had just crashed on top of him, yet the man was unharmed. No scratch, nor cut. A few bruises and probably a dent in his dignity from when Moran had found him underneath the rubble, before going after Holmes and Watson. But he was in a far better state than Moran was; bleeding from a cut in his head when the same tower had landed on him as well, crashing his skull against the cobblestones, and he had a gunshot to his right side where Watson had shot him, on his waist.

The professor watched Moran's contorted face with great interest as the surgeon emptied the syringe into his bloodstream, sipping his drink and taking great pleasure at seeing the other in pain. The ex-colonel didn't answer, too humiliated that Holmes and Watson had escaped from him. He clenched his teeth, his right hand gripping the side of the desk so firmly that his arm shook and his knuckles turned white.

'I would have had them – if that fucking train—

'The train is irrelevant,' the professor cut him off after first draining his drink and putting his glass down on the coffee table to his right, getting up from his seat and rolling up his sleeves as he approached the desk. 'What is relevant, is that you allowed them to escape.'

'They wouldn't have escaped if those cunts hadn't blown a fucking hole into the perimeter.'

'Those cunts-,' the professor spoke louder, jerking his head at the surgeon to let him know he had to leave. The surgeon nodded and turned to leave the room while the professor turned towards the bowl of water that stood on a cabinet to the right where he started to wash his hands, '-were under your command. I'd almost start to think you were discharged for appalling leadership, colonel,' he spat the rank at the man on the table, flicking the remaining water drops off his fingers before turning back towards the wounded man on the table. He rummaged in the surgeon's bag and found a pair of tweezers and a scalpel.

Again, Moran didn't answer, his pride too hurt from today's failure. He was shaking; but the professor couldn't exactly pinpoint if it was due to the pain, the last few drops of adrenaline in his blood from running through the woods chasing gypsies and detectives, or from anger that he was being humiliated by his employer, while he lay bleeding on an expensive mahogany desk.

'You will make up for your mistakes,' the professor said as he sat down on a stool the surgeon had asked for earlier, seating himself high enough to be able to reach Moran's gunshot wound, taking the scalpel and carefully cutting the wound open a bit, inserting the tweezers to spread the skin. Moran hissed and swore with his teeth still jammed together, barely audible; but the professor's hearing was sharp enough to hear the curses had been aimed directly at him. He ignored it; this time.

'We'll depart for Switzerland on the morrow,' he declared as he peered into the wound in search for remnants of the bullet. 'I suspect Holmes and Doctor Watson will follow soon – his brother is attending the conference and has a house in the mountains. I see no reason why they would not follow us.'

'You ripped Holmes' arm off his body,' Moran hissed at the professor. 'He should find himself a doctor – not go to the Swiss Alps.

'You underestimate the good detective, Moran. I'm growing weary of your lack of interest in this game he and I are playing.

'This ain't a fucking game,' Moran spat at him as he lifted up his head, his brow furrowed and face again contorted, this time with pain and anger. The professor knew his chief of staff would need something to cool his blood; usually, he would fuck one of his wenches or have a stiff drink. But not this time. This time, Moran had to learn his lesson for failing.

The professor trusted his right thumb into Moran's wound, the ex-colonel's entire body jerking at the pain. Blood seeped out of the wound, down Moran's abdomen and the professor's arm, staining his shirt. The employer didn't react to the ruin of his shirt, but had his eyes fixed on Moran, who was growling and huffing at him with pain.

'You cu—CHRIST!'

The professor pushed his thumb in further at Moran's attempt to call him a cunt and the ex-colonel arched his back, throwing his head back and crying with pain.

'Sto-stop!' Moran pleaded, his hands grabbing the professor's wrist, trying to scramble off the table.

The professor got up from his stool so fast he knocked it backwards, his left hand grabbing Moran by his throat and holding him in place, prevent him from crawling away from him. He leaned forwards, his mouth close to Moran's ear.

'You will kill that gypsy-bastard as soon as he terminates the prime minister. Fail, and I will throw you down the Reichenbach waterfall myself.'

Moran struggled against the professor's death grip, squirming with pain and lack of oxygen. He huffed, teeth still clenched together, his eyes fixed on the professor's as the man looked up at him.

Moran nodded.


End file.
